The Winds of Change (ASOIAF)
by greysider
Summary: The forces of the winter prepare for the Second Long Night in the North, the Targaryen exiles plot their revenge in the East, and in King's Landing, a young prince by the name of Alexander intends to reshape the world in his image. All the while, Westeros is in a state of unprecedented transformation. The Age of Reformation has begun, and the winds of change shall not be stopped.
1. Introduction

**AN: Welcome to "The Winds of Change", the first part of a series titled "A Song of Reformation". Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **The Age of Reformation**_

 _A Complete Account_

 _Co-Written by ArchMaesters of History Harion Cartwell, Jonas Wythers, Charlie Herston, and Kyllan Lanser_

 _Year 165 C.E._

 _A Prelude by GrandMaester Ivarn Cafferen_

 _The Age of Reformation was a period of history that most historians agree lasted from the year 23 B.C.E. to the year 140 C.E. It involved the drastic reshaping of the Westerosi politics, the end of the feudal system, and the development of the first modern trade economy. The "reformative period", as it is sometimes called, also intersects by the "Decade of Enlightenment", consisting of the first 10 years of the [Common Era]._

 _This volume seeks to chronicle the massive changes undertaken during this age, and examine and explore the incentives and the historical events needed to produce such changes._

 _The 'Reformation' itself has, to date, been cause to the most extensive and widespread changes to all levels of Westerosi society in chronicles history. Every tranche of society, from the most poor of smallfolk to the most privileged of the nobles, has seen their very livelihoods, professions, and place in life uterrely uprooted by the period. The simply monumentous shifts in the systems of economics, politics, religion, military, and culture are certainly deserving of being made distinct with their own timeline. The year "0" of the [Common Era] to be clear, is to mark clear the separation between the era of feudalism that existed for thousands of years and that of the modern age, of which there is no lack of identifying differences._

 _In the chronicles and tomes that give sight into the countless centuries B.C.E., it is understood that significant manipulations to professions, statuses, and tranches occurred maybe only once a century. Events such as Aegon's Landing in 309 B.C.E. which unified Westeros into one nominal state, the flight of the Rhoynar around 1000 B.C.E. which populated the land of Dorne and established a detached culture to those to the north, and the death of the last dragon of House Targaryen in 149 B.C.E. which renewed the tradition of large military concentrations all served to define and shape the history of their respective fields._

 _Even so, the feudalistic period maintained its supremacy up till its last years. No matter the changes described above, it was not until the very onset of the [Common Era] that it was ever considered that feudalism might actually be on the descend. The system had certainly morphed in the centuries prior, but its strength was never doubted up until the end. While systems could and would change inside the feudal order, it seemed as though the order itself was to live forever. The 'Reformation' proved this to be wrong._

 _Events of supreme influence, normally reserved as a rarity in history, exploded in frequency during the 'Reformation'. Where one field, such as that of the military, may have evolved slowly over the course of century in the times of feudalism, the C.E. forced it to adapt at intervals ranging in the decades, if not single years. Such mighty compression of change no doubt shook the very foundations of Westeros to the core, proven by the fact that their constantly changing norms led to a myriad of conflict and evolution._

 _In every way, those professions, statuses, and tranches are unrelatable contrasted to their former counterparts. The creation of the first notion of 'rights', and the sovereignty of any institution or state, no least people, was nothing short of revolutionary for its time. The 'Enlightenment', or the freeing of knowledge from the hands of the old Order of Maesters allowed even the most illiterate and lowest rank of smallfolk access to information both past and present. The institution of elections, previously only in the context of a top-down structure, has turned the state into a instrument of the nation, and not the other way around. The invention of the cannons and rifles, apart from the forced emphasis of skill and tactics in battle, thrust the nobility from their stranglehold on armed conflict, yet another strike at their previous powers._

 _Perhaps the most important revolution is that of 'democracy'. Though it would be impossible to call the current iteration of the state a 'democracy', it must be acknowledged that the philosophy behind the political science is less than 200 years old. Indeed, the first transcribed ideas that resembled the modern philosophy can be found during the Age of Reformation. The very concept of smallfolk and non-nobles having a say in the actions of the state, as laid out in "From the Ground Up", a popular manifesto published around 9 B.C.E., laid the platform for the expanded political doctrine that called for the dissolution of political privileges, equal representation under the law, and the 'right' to a vote for every citizen of Westeros. From the strict aristocracy of the feudal order, the influence of 'democratic principles' most heavily impacted the evolution of the state and the concept of the nation as a whole during the 'Reformation'._

 _Finally, this work addresses many of the controversial opinions of the famous Maester Samwell Tarly in his work "An Uncertain Course of Events", written in the last years of his life and published posthumously in 51 C.E. In it, Maester Tarly argues that the end of the feudal system and its involved elements was by no means a certain fact. "Progress," he wrote, "Was never guaranteed for the Westerosi people. We had to build it, block by block."_

 _Indeed, it has been the subject of debate for many decades if the Age of Reformation, as a time in history, was destined to unfold. Many sectors of popular culture, especially in more recent times, claims that the 'Reformation' was bound to happen regardless of the individual actions of certain characters. This is in addition to religious acertations of a path charted by God and those of politicians who claim the noble tradition. This theory has been called "Linear Progression", or the belief that progress is eventual but certain to the human species. For sure, this theory has been a critical factor in the creation of the 'Westerosi identity', which one might remember is too a fairly recent development. The very idea of a populace being destined for something, in this case, the ascension from the poor landscape of feudalism._

 _Yet, there is another side that argues that the 'Reformation' was a matter of complete circumstance; that unless a wide variety of events and peoples came together to do what they did, it might never had occurred, a theory which is inversely called "Circumstantial Civilization". This theory directly contradicts the stated opinions of most major religious groups across the nation and is also seen negatively amongst most in power today. However, the argument does put much more weight behind the study of history and the particular study of individuals, the most popular of which may be His Lord Eminence, Alexander I._

 _Alexander I, the first Westerosi head of state in the [Common Era], is no doubt at the center of the argument between "Linear Progression" and "Circumstantial "Civilization" He is also perhaps the figure most closely associated with the 'Reformation' itself, having a direct hand in the wars that gave birth to the period and the subsequent political and economic reforms which defined it. Little is known about the person of Alexander, though much of his public actions were extensively recorded. As such, it is difficult to ascertain the exact influence that His Eminence had. Nevertheless, he is key to the positions of both theories._

 _Apart from examining in close detail the events both large and small of the 'Reformation' as well as the characters involved, it is also a case study into the individual that was Alexander I. Was he truly the wise leader that reshaped a nation in his image, or was he merely a coincidence of the time that should instead be confined to the footnotes of history?_


	2. The Great Houses of Westeros 298 AL

**Genealogy of the Great Houses of Westeros**

 _In the year 298 [AL]_

Compiled by Archmaester Perestan

Table of Contents

House BARATHEON

of the Crownlands

of the Stormlands

of Dragonstone

House STARK

House TULLY

House ARRYN

House LANNISTER

House TYRELL

House MARTELL

House GREYJOY

House TARGARYEN

of King's Landing

in Essos

 **HOUSE BARATHEON – Ours is the Fury**

 **The youngest of the Great Houses, born during the Wars of Conquest. Its founder, Orys Baratheon, was rumored to be Aegon the Dragon's bastard brother. Orys rose through the ranks to become one of Aegon's fiercest commanders. When he defeated and slew Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King, Aegon rewarded him with Argilac's castle, lands, and daughter. Orys took the girl to bride, and adopted the banner, honors, and words of her line. The Baratheon sigil is a crowned stag, black, on a golden field. Their words are Ours is the Fury.**

 **of the Crownlands:**

Robert, The Demon of the Trident; Lord of King's Landing and Lord Paramount of the Crownlands; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; King on the Iron Throne; Protector of the Realm; Head of House Baratheon; born in the year 262

\- Married to Queen Consort Cersei of the House Lannister, Queen on the Iron Throne

Joffrey, Prince Heir to the Iron Throne, born in the year 282

Alexander, Prince Secundus of the Iron Throne, Lord Mayor of Duskendale; born in the year 283

Myrcella, Princess of the Iron Throne, born in the year 286

Tommen, Prince of the Iron Throne, born in the year 288

 **of the Stormlands:**

Renly, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands; Prince of the Realm; Warden of the South to the Iron Throne; born in the year 276 (unmarried)

 **of Dragonstone:**

Stannis, The Stalwart; Lord of Dragonstone; Prince of the Realm; Master of Ships, Lord Admiral to the Iron Throne; born in the year 264

\- Married to Lady Selyse of the House Florent, Lady of Dragonstone

Shireen, The Disfigured; Heir to Dragonstone, born in the year 287

 **HOUSE STARK – Winter is Coming**

 **The Starks trace their descent from Brandon the Builder and the ancient Kings of Winter. For thousands of years they ruled from Winterfell as Kings in the North, until Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, chose to swear fealty to Aegon the Dragon rather than give battle. Their blazon is a grey direwolf on an ice-white field. The Stark words are Winter Is Coming.**

\- Eddard, The Grey Wolf, Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North; Magnar of the First Men; Warden of the North to the Iron Throne; Head of House Stark; born in the year 263

\- Married to Lady Catelyn of the House Tully, Lady of Winterfell

Robert, Heir to Winterfell, born in the year 282

Sansa, born in the year 285

Arya, born in the year 287

Brandon, Heir Secundus, born in the year 289

Rickon, born in the year 292

Jon Snow, acknowledged bastard, born in the year 282 (mother unknown)

Benjen, The Lone Wolf, Black Brother and First Ranger of the Night's Watch; born in the year 267

Brandon, The Wilf Wolf, executed on the orders of King Aerys II in the year 280

Lyanna, The Winter Rose, dead in the year 281

 **HOUSE TULLY – Family, Duty, Honor**

 **The Tullys never reigned as kings, though they held rich lands and the great castle at Riverrun for a thousand years. When Harren the Black, Tyrant over the Riverlands and his line perished in the burning of Harrenhal, Aegon Targaryen rewarded House Tully by raising Lord Edmyn to dominion over the lands of the Trident and requiring the other river lords to swear him fealty. The Tully sigil is a leaping trout, silver, on a field of rippling blue and red. The Tully words are Family, Duty, Honor.**

Hoster, The Old; Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands; High Lord of the Trident and the Marshes; Head of House Tully; born in the year 238

\- Married to Lady Minisa Whent (dead in 276)

Catelyn, Lady of Winterfell, born in the year 265

Lysa, Lady of the Eyrie, born in the year 267

Edmure, Heir to Riverrun and the Lordship of Harrenhal, born in the year 273

Brynden, The Blackfish; Warden and Commander of the Bloody Gate of the Eyrie; born in the year 245

 **HOUSE ARRYN – As High as Honor**

 **The Arryns are descended from the Kings of Mountain and Vale, one of the oldest and purest lines of Andal nobility. Their sigil is the moon-and-falcon, white, upon a sky-blue field. The Arryn words are As High As Honor.**

Jon, The Wise; Lord of the Eyrie and Lord Paramount of the Vale; High Lord of the Passes; Hand of the King, Warden of the East, and Designated Regent to the Iron Throne; Head of House Arryn; born in the year 220

\- Married to Lady Lysa of the House Tully, Lady of the Eyrie

Robin, The Sick; Heir to the Eyrie, born in the year 290

Ronnel, dead in the year 262

\- Married to Lady Melanie of the House Belmore

Elbert, executed by King Aerys II in the year 280

 **HOUSE TYRELL – Growing Strong**

 **The Tyrells rose to power as stewards to the Kings of the Reach, and through the female line they claim descent from Garth Greenhand, gardener king of the First Men. When King Mern, last of the old line, perished on the Field of Fire, his steward Harlen Tyrell surrendered Highgarden to Aegon Targaryen, pledging fealty. Aegon granted him the castle and dominion over the Reach. The Tyrell sigil is a golden rose on a grass-green field. Their words are Growing Strong**

Mace, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach; Lord of Manderford; Lord Custodian of the Roseroad; High Lord of the Upper Mander; Head of House Tyrell, born in the year 256

\- Married to Lady Alerie of the House Hightower, Lady of Highgarden

Willas, Heir to Highgarden, born in the year 275

Garlan, Heir Secundus, born in the year 277

\- Married to Leonette of the House Fossaway

Loras, born in the year 281 Margaery, born in the year 282

Olenna, The Queen of Thorns, Lady Mother of Highgarden, Lady of House Redwyne; born in the year 231

Mina, married to Lord Paxter of the House Redwyne

Janna, married to Ser Jon of the House Fossaway

Garth, The Gross, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden

Moryn, Lord of the City Watch of Oldtown

Gormon, Grandmaester to the Iron Throne

 **HOUSE LANNISTER – Hear Me Roar**

 **The Lannisters are the blood of Andal adventurers who carved out a mighty kingdom in the western hills and valleys. Through the female line they claim descent from Lann the Clever, the legendary trickster of the Age of Heroes. The gold of Casterly Rock and the Golden Tooth has made them the wealthiest of the Great Houses. Their sigil is a golden lion upon a crimson field. The Lannister words are Hear Me Roar!**

Tywin, The Great Lion, Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands; Lord of Castamere; Lord Custodian of the Gold Road; Shield of Lannisport; Warden of the West to the Iron Throne; Head of House Lannister; born in the year 242

\- Married to Lady Joana of the House Lannister (dead 273)

Jaime, The Kingslayer, Kingsguard to King Robert I; born in the year 266

Cersei, Queen Consort of the Iron Throne, born in the year 266

\- Married to King Robert I of the House Baratheon

Tyrion, The Imp, Heir Apparent to Casterly Rock; Master of Coin to the Iron Throne; born in the year 273

Kevan, Seneschal of Casterly Rock; born in the year 244

\- Married to Dorna of the House Swift

Lancel, squire to King Robert I, born in the year 282

William, born in the year 285

Martyn, born in the year 285

Janei, born in the year 293

Genna, Lady to Casterly Rock; born in the year 245

\- Married to Emmon of the House Frey

Cleos [Frey], born in the year 262

Lyonel [Frey], born in the year 265

Tion [Frey], born in the year 269

Tygett, dead 288

\- Married to Darlessa of the House Marbrand

Tyrek, squire to King Robert I, born in the year 185

Gerion, The Traveler; dead 291

Joy, acknowledged bastard, born in the year 288

Stafford, Master-at-Arms of Casterly Rock; born in the year 251

\- Married to Myranda of the House Lefford

Daven, born in the year 273

Cerenna, born in the year 279

Myrielle, born in the year 283

 **HOUSE MARTELL – Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken**

 **Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, brought ten thousand ships to land in Dorne, the southernmost of the Seven Kingdoms, and took Lord Mors Martell to husband. Dorne, alone of the Seven Kingdoms, was never conquered by Aegon the Dragon. It was not permanently joined to the realm until two hundred years later, and then by marriage and treaty, not the sword. Peaceable King Daeron II succeeded where the warriors had failed by wedding the Dornish princess Myriah and giving his own sister in marriage to the reigning Prince of Dorne. The Martell banner is a red sun pierced by a golden spear. Their words are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.**

Doran, The Unbent; Lord of Sunspear and Lord Paramount of Dorne; Prince of the Rhoynar; Head of House Martell; born in the year 248

\- Married to Mellario of Norvos, Lady of Sunspear

Arianne, Princess Heir to Sunspear, born in the year 277

Quentyn, Prince Secundus to Sunspear, born in the year 281

Trystane, Prince of Sunspear, born in the year 286

Oberyn, The Red Viper, Prince of Dorne; born in the year 259

Elia, Princess of the Iron Throne and of Dorne, slain in the year 281

 **HOUSE GREYJOY – We Do Not Sow**

 **The Greyjoys of Pyke claim descent from the Grey King of the Age of Heroes. Legend says the Grey King ruled not only the western isles but the sea itself, and took a mermaid to wife. The Iron Kings extended their rule far beyond the isles themselves, carving kingdoms out of the mainland with fire and sword. In later centuries, King Harren the Black of the Ironborn ruled all the lands between the mountains, from the Neck to the Blackwater Rush. When Harren and his sons perished in the fall of Harrenhal, Aegon Targaryen granted the riverlands to House Tully, and allowed the surviving lords of the Iron Islands to revive their ancient custom and choose who should have the primacy among them. They chose Lord Vickon Greyjoy of Pyke. The Greyjoy sigil is a golden kraken upon a black field. Their words are We Do Not Sow.**

Balon, The Broken Kracken; Lord of Peak and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands; Leader of the Ironborn; Chosen of the Drowned God; Head of House Greyjoy; born in the year 255

\- Married to Laddy Alannys of the House Harlaw

Rodrick, The Reaver, slain in the year 289

Maron, slain in the year 289

Asha, Heiress Apparent to the Lordship of Peak, born in the year 276

Theon, A Ward of House Stark, born in the year 279

Euron, The Crow's Eye, A Outlaw and Pirate; born in the year 260

Victarion; Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet; born in the year 262

Aeron, Damphair, Chief Priest of the Drowned God; born in the year 263

 **HOUSE TARGARYEN – Fire and Blood**

 **Aegon the Dragon's ancestors escaped the Doom of Valyria and the chaos and slaughter that followed to settle on Dragonstone, a rocky island in the narrow sea. It was from there that Aegon and his sisters sailed to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. To preserve the blood royal and keep it pure, House Targaryen has often followed the Valyrian custom of wedding brother to sister. Aegon himself took both his sisters to wife, and fathered sons on each. The Targaryen banner is a three-headed dragon, red on black, the three heads representing Aegon and his sisters. The Targaryen words are Fire and Blood.**

 **of King's Landing:**

Aerys, The Mad King; Lord of King's Landing and Lord Paramount of the Crownlands; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; King on the Iron Throne; Head of House Targaryen; dead 281

\- Married to Queen Rhaella of the House Targaryen, Queen on the Iron Throne

Rhaegar, Lord of Summerhall and Prince Heir to the Iron Throne; dead 281

\- Elia of the House Martell, Lady of Summerhall

Rhaeyns, dead 281

Aegon, dead 281

 **in Essos:**

Viserys, The Beggar Prince; Prince of the House Targaryen; Self-styled "King Viserys III of the Seven Kingdoms"; born in the year 276

Daenerys, The Stormborn; Princess of the House Targaryen; born in the year 282


	3. The State of King Robert I 298 AL

**The State**

 **of**

 **Robert I of the House Baratheon, First of His Name**

In the year 298 [AL]

Documented by the Keeper of the Records

The 'State consists of two primary institutions.

First of these is the [Small Council], its associated positions, and various under-offices, which handle to daily governance of the realm and the implementation of the King's laws.

The second are the various posts of authority that handle matters related to the King's demesne, including but not limited to his household, wardenships, city watches, and mayorships.

 **The Small Council:**

The Hand of the King: Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale

Captain of the Hand's Guard: Vardis Egen

Steward of the Hand: Thomas Cressey

Secretary of the Hand: Andus Wydman

Keeper of the Records: Simon Donniger

Grand Maester: Maester Gormon {Tyrell}

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Barristan Selmy

\- Ser Jaime Lannister

\- Ser Arys Oakheart

\- Ser Mandon Moore

\- Ser Jorah Mormont

\- Ser Marwyn Belmore

\- Ser Balon Swann

Master of Coin: Tyrion Lannister

Harbormaster of King's Landing: Tobias Gaunt

\- Customs Sergeants: Harrion Cuy, Douglas Sentel, Jacob Carnor, Bradock Piler

King's Counter: Peytr Baelish

\- Tax Assessors: Alfred Toland, Seban Woodbury, Erac Cauldren, Clatton Fisher, Darin Barler

Keeper of the Keys: Clarton Hopper Advisor on the Treasury: Duncan Stael

King's Scales: Peytr Baelish

Master of Laws: Aemon Estermont, Lord of Greenstone

Justiciar:

Rowan Sunglass (King's Landing)

Jarmen Buckwell (Antlers)

Stephan Staunton (Rook's Rest)

Justin Massey (Stonedance)

Christopher Manning (Duskendal)

Elwood Harte (Rosby)

High Marshal: Gilbert Farring

Brus Buckler, Kennat Trent

King's Justice: Ser Ilyn Payne

Chief Gaoler: Rennifer Longwaters

\- Rudgen (under-gaoler)

\- Elden (under-gaoler)

\- Darrok (under-gaoler)

\- Seamas (under-gaoler)

\- Drylen (under-gaoler)

Lord Confessor: None

Master of Ships: Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone

Commissioner of the Fleet: Cameron Celtigar

Grand Admiral: Stannis Baratheon

\- Commodore of Silver Squadron: Aurane Waters

\- Commodore of Black Squadron: Colton Fawker

\- Commodore of Yellow Squadron: Elias Pryor

Master of Whisperers: Varys

The High Septon: unamed due to ceremonial reasons

Representative from the Princedom of Dorne: Ryon Allyrion

Representative from the Reach: Willas Tyrell

Representative from the Stormlands: None

Representative from the Westerlands: None

Representative from the Iron Islands: None

Representative from the Riverlands: Karyl Vance

Representative from the Vale: None

Representative from the North: Marlon Manderly

 **The King's Demesne**

Steward: Leonard Hewitt

Master of Games: Nestar Plumm

Master of Feasts: Gilbert Waker

Master of Horse: Dustin Pyne

Master-at-arms: Aron Stantagar

Royal Huntsman: Colren Meadows

Commander of the King's Watch: Janos Slynt

Jacelyn Bywater (captain), Triston Tally (captain), Marcus Appleton (captain), Brenden Flowers (captain), Tristan Ryger (captain)

Officer of the Gates: Perkin Follard

\- Deputy of Dragon's Gate: Melvin Woodfoot

\- Deputy of Iron Gate: Dylan Langward

\- Deputy of Lion Gate: Willym Green

\- Deputy of River Gate: Narman Kells

\- Deputy of Old Gate: None

\- Deputy of King's Gate: Mateo Lolliston

\- Deputy of Gate of the Gods: None

Warden of Crackclaw Point: Ormund Wylde

\- Dick Crabb (officer), Hubard Rambton (officer)

Warden of the Kingswood: Alesander Staedmont

\- Deputy Warden of the Kingswood: None

Lord Mayor of Duskendal: Alexander Baratheon, Prince of the Realm

Commander of the City Watch: Terrance Keys


	4. EDDARD I

**EDDARD I**

 **Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. All other concepts and ideas from other books or stories belong to their respective authors. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 **Late morning**

 **20th Day of the 1st Month; 298 A.L.**

 **Winterfell**

 **The North; Westeros**

Eddard Stark stood straight, his head held high and his eyes roaming around the expansive courtyard.

The pommel of the greatsword Ice, crafted in the form of the Stark direwolf, lay comfortably in his rugged hands, the tip pointed downwards and facing outwards, ready for him to kneel before his overlord and friend. Eddard had done so many times before, but for some reason, a hint of apprehensive seemed to be present this time.

Robert had not deigned to come north ever since his coronation, and though it pained him to admit it, Eddard did not blame him. The North was a cold and dark place, where the gathering of food and the reinforcing of basic structures always took more attention than the tourneys and martial pursuits that were common to the south. The King, being the larger-than-life character that he was, embraced those pursuits with open arms, especially the other 'pursuits' that such a lifestyle would afford him.

Furthermore, the northern lord knew that his dear friend had his own host of troubles in the capital. Unlike in the North, where the threat of winter, wildlings, and southern influences more or less banded the competing interests together, there was no such moral unity in the rest of the realm. Lannisters, Tyrells, Martells and others all backstabbed and betrayed each other for what? Power? Influence? He knew himself that he would be lost in such a world of politics, and that was why he did not envy Robert's position.

The last time he had seen the King, it had been at Riverrun, no, Pyke, where they had stood triumphant over the defeated Greyjoys, their rebellion having been crushed into the sea. It had been concerning at first to see that the lean man he once knew had put on at least two or three stone, but that could easily be put down to the stresses of rule. Men like Robert found their calling on the battlefield of war, not on the chair of peace, and so it made sense that he would let himself go a bit.

Now though, Eddard was anxious. He wouldn't deny it.

It had been a little less than eight full years since he had seen his childhood companion, and decades since the Royal Family had come to Winterfell, let alone a single royal at that. Needless to say, the North had a contentious relationship with the "King in the South", as they would forever deem them. The last major interaction they had with one was the act of supplanting and replacing him with another. Even then, though, Robert had immediately lost his credibility as a friend of the Lord of Winterfell, instead becoming just another nameless royal that lived down in the Red Keep.

Worse so was the fact that said royal was not coming north alone. With him marched his Lannister wife, a number of her relatives, more than two hundred minor nobles, their retinues, and more than a hundred civil servants of the King's Court. Ever hesitant of the Lannisters and their dubious motivations, Ned had been, at one point, hesitant to welcome them into his home. His wife, Catelyn, had convinced him that such a move was beyond the pale and that, no matter how many reservations he had about their past behavior, he should play the role of the gracious host for now. To the surprise of non, he had promptly acquiesced.

All in all, there were around four hundred and sixty including the King, and their number would probably be increased by freeriders by the time they reached the gates of Winterfell. At the very least, he was glad that the whole court hadn't decided to pack up and make their way north. He remembered learning that the courts of the old Targaryen Kings had always been very small, never exceeding a hundred of so courtiers and small nobles. This was more so as to not alienate any one faction of the nobility, a game which Eddard knew to be complex and evil at its core.

However, the Mad King, Aerys, had opened up the doors of the Red Keep to any and all who would come in the early days of his reign. Though the books all painted him as a monster, as they should, Luwin told him that the mad King had started off quite sane indeed, wanting to let down the walls to power and expand access to the royal family. In his later years, though, the large court had been a way for Aerys to play one rival off of another, each of them working for his favor.

When Robert had ascended to the throne, the traditions set by Aerys had continued, with hundreds of knights, barons, and minor lords flocking to the Red Keep every year. For Robert, of course, this meant more tourneys and celebrations, which only encouraged more to come and attend. As a result, there were no more people accompany a King on a trip than ever before in recorded history, and they were all riding on Winterfell with the expectation of a grand feast to match those in the south.

All of this didn't mean that he was uninterested in all guests save his old friend. For one, he had never met the royal princes and princess. With the blood of Robert Baratheon, you could assume that they would all be equally as brash and confident as their father, but he had heard that, for some reason, they all sported the blonde hair and green eyes of the Lannisters. Was there more lion in them than stag?

Joffrey, the eldest, and the heir. Catelyn had once suggested a betrothal between him and their own eldest daughter, Sansa, years ago. Where once he would have been eager to complete such a proposition, he had not even met Joffrey, nor had he been in contact with Robert for many a year now. On the news that the Royal Family was traveling north, Catelyn had brought up the idea another time, and now he would have a chance to see the crown prince himself, and judge if he would be a worthy lord for his daughter. Maybe another great lord would have agreed on the spot just to secure a place in the royal succession, but Eddard was not like those other men, and he had long promised himself that he wouldn't sell away his daughter for a political arrangement.

And then there was Alexander, the second son, born almost a perfect year after his elder. According to what he had read from Jon Arryn's letters, the boy had been wild and confused in his youth, leading some to believe that he had been infected by a 'sickness of the mind'. It was not to be though, as he turned out to be quite adept at his early lessons, and Eddard had heard many a traveling southern lord praising the young boy's intellect and knowledge. It was said that he had in himself the makings of a great Maester, but clearly such a life was not in the interest of Alexander, for he had spent much of his youth traveling the breadth of the Seven Kingdoms, touring the lands and meeting all the interesting people he could. The only one of the Kingdoms that had escaped his travels was the North, but now it seemed that he would be able to complete his quest.

The two youngest, Tommen and Myrcella, he knew next to nothing about. They were described as cute and charming. He was not sure if they would be able to get along well with his own younger sons and daughter, especially Arya, but their arrival would at least give Eddard the chance to observe them as well as their older brothers.

Truly, with what felt like the might of the southern kingdoms bearing down upon Winterfell's gates, including the King and his royal children, Eddard was determined not to disappoint. In honor of Robert's arrival, he had spared no expense in preparing a great feast, a hunt, and sufficient accommodations for them all. The First Keep had been cleared of unnecessary guests and extensively refurbished in the past two weeks. Additional lodgments had been found in Wintertown by his steward, Poole, for the hundreds of other court members and freeriders who would no doubt deserve proper residences as well.

Cat had been in charge of the food preparations, and judging by her prior experience, he had no doubt that Robert would be pleased. As always, she had done well to procure all the specialties from throughout the kingdom. Exotic spices from Manderly, cured meats from Glover, the finest lambs from Hornwood, fresh fish from Tallhart, amongst other things. It would be a feast to be remembered if he had anything to say about it.

Normally, the Stark family and household ate relatively little. The combination of a small retinue of guards and staff as well as a culture of temperate consumption meant that their needs were usually met by just half a dozen or so of the many farms on the outskirts of the city walls. Most of the rest, as far as he was aware, was either sold back to the farmers or traded at the open markets. However, the expected arrival of more than two hundred southern guests meant that six or seven of the many plots would not suffice.

As such, in the past week, cartloads of potatoes, carrots, barley, corn, and wheat had passed through the Wolf Gate of the castle. Almost every hour, it seemed, another peasant came wheeling their cart through the town, bringing with them a large assortment of produce indeed. At first, Eddard himself had been shocked by the sheer volume of food Winterfell's own plots apparently could furnace. Though Poole told him they had had to cut down on the regular practice of selling food back to the peasants, it was also that new changes in farming technique that was to blame for the surpluses.

He remembered, some years back, when he had heard of something about modifying the planting schedule. Not knowing much about agriculture himself, Eddard had thought little of it, until now. Perhaps, when the feast was over and the guests were gone, he could look into it himself and try to understand just what exactly had been changed and why.

He had been too busy to inquire at the moment, because he had been adding his special touches to the plans for the night. In the armory behind the kitchens, he had directed Luwin to acquire some of those 'fireworks' that Robert seemed so fond of down south. To his understanding, they were a rather recent thing, but it is said that his friend had never been happier that to see them explode above King's Landing for the first time on his return from the Greyjoy war. It had been difficult, but to his credit, Luwin had managed to buy an assortment of red and yellow ones from a merchant in Barrowtown. Even he had never seen the devices in action before, and he could think of no better time than reuniting with his old friend.

No matter how much the household had done to prepare for the King's arrival, the castle was still running around at the last minute. One of the watchmen had spotted the King's party, accompanied by Jory's escort, under a half hour ride away, and Winterfell had been in a state of acute panic ever since.

Even as Eddard stood calmly, the sword resting in his hands and his personal guard in their positions around him, chaos swirled around him. There were guardsmen lining up in formation, checking their equipment and making sure their armor was polished and clean. Horses and husbandry animals were being cleared from the main yard, either to be locked up back in the cavalry barracks or brought through the kitchens.

Above him, a cool wind blew through the grounds. High above, the large banners of House Stark fluttered back and forth, the simple direwolf displayed for all to see. There was a certain pride in the knowledge that one's ancestors, all far wiser and better rules than he, were looking down upon him. It was a heavy responsibility, for sure, but it was one that Eddard took one with appreciation, not greed. Let his ancestors look upon him proudly this day, for he would show all the nobility of the south how true and honest the northern hospitality was.

He returned his attention to the rest of the courtyard, observing as the rest of the household finally got itself orderly and the sounds of commotion slowly died down.

To the side, Cat was getting their children ready, fretting over Sansa's green dress and wiping off a smudge of dirt from bottom of it. Robb, his pride and joy, as well as his heir, sent him a small chuckle, marveling around as soldiers and servants ran around trying to arrange themselves. Unlike himself, Robb had never been present for such a great feast, being as uncommon as they were in The North. Gently, he reached over and ruffled his son's hair, laughing lightly all the while.

Behind him, Sansa yelped, causing Eddard to look over in concern until he saw that it was just his girl's direwolf, Lady, which had surprised her from behind. Unlike Robb, it seemed like Sansa was having a bit more of a difficult time adjusting to her new companion. Direwolves were very active and energetic creatures, especially the young ones. Sansa, like his wife, was a more subdued presence, and the personality of lady and wolf were sure to clash. All was fine, he told himself, for he was confident Sansa would soon figure out how to handle the new responsibility.

Rickon and Bran were playfully hitting each other at the end of the line, Sansa now trying to keep them separated from each other so as not to dirty their clothes. Bran, ever the knight, extended his arm like an invisible sword, pretending to take jabs at his younger brother like Cassel had taught him to. His smile slowly left his lips, however, as he noticed a few missing persons amongst his family.

His head swiveled around, trying to catch a sight of his youngest daughter. He groaned, lifting a hand to his forehead. He was about to turn around and ask Wyl to go and find her when he felt a small figure bump up against his leg and speed past him straight into Robb.

Arya was wearing a small grey dress and sporting a rather thick iron helmet, which Sansa was quick to snatch off her head and pass off to one of her attendants. Horrified, Catelyn pushed Arya next to her sister and set about correcting her posture as Robb chortled bemusedly at the whole thing.

She was giggling and squirming, seemingly unaware of everything going on around her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the nameless soldiers in grey armor try to hide a snigger at Arya's mischief, but one hard look from Eddard and he returned to his prior posture.

Arya, well, whatever his dear wife did, he doubted it would ever tame the wolf within his little girl. Her love of swords, armor, riding, it all reminded him far too much of . . .

He wiped a small tear from underneath his eye.

He took a deep breath, banishing away the painful memories of the past and refocusing himself back on his present family.

Wait.

Where was Jon?

Eddard looked over his children again, failing to find the boy hidden amongst them. He wasn't with the guards as well, not with the other noble sons assembled on the far side of the yard. Nor was he standing with the servants, nor with the Wintertown banners.

Damn it, he thought. Jon should be here for this. He should see his father paying his proper respects to the King and, well, he should be seen as part of the family. Jon should be there, next to Robb, standing tall and proud like he did, clasping hands with the King and showing the world who he truly was.

Well, Eddard couldn't go off and find him now. Everybody was in position, his wife and children ready for the ceremonies.

Resigned to Jon being absent for the occasion, he closed his eyes for a second and calmed himself. There would be plenty of other opportunities in the future, and he would remember to seek out the boy later tonight when he had a spare moment to himself.

Cautiously, he looked over to his wife, wondering if she would have noticed Jon's absence.

No, she was too busy fixing up Sansa's skirt. Truthfully, he didn't expect her to, and hadn't before, but maybe, for something as grand as this, she would have given a care?

It was probably this same attitude that scared Jon away. Why would he want to be in the front, displayed for the world to see with his family, when he was treated the way he was. Robb would have treated him as his own, Eddard knew that at least, but a mother's love just couldn't ever be replaced. Not that Catelyn would ever really . . .

At that, the sound of a horn froze all of his immediate thoughts.

Robert was here.

At once, the assorted heralds spread out amongst the walls picked up the royal tune and the whole courtyard was filled with the blasting sound of music.

Eddard flinched. Harrenhal had been the last place where he had heard such a tune, and Harrenhal was, without a doubt, the place that had at once crushed his innocence and crush his dreams for the future. He shook off these dangerous thoughts once more, because that's what they were, dangerous, and they had no place in a day of celebration such as this one. For some reason, that day seemed to weigh on him more heavily than usual today, but Eddard would not fall into the trap of reminiscing about what could be. Not now.

Looking around, the guardsmen and servants straightened themselves and tightened their most professional faces, all hoping no doubt to make the best impression possible on the royals.

Then, in front of them all, the four-foot-thick metal of the Wolf Gate lifted itself from the cold ground. They all knew that on the inside of the outer walls a team of at least a dozen watchmen were heaving hard on the wheel to open the gate, but the vision of the great grey beast rising from the cold ground was a powerful one to behold.

On the other side, the wide crowd of horses started at a slow trot, easily clearing the gate. The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of red and gold, their polished steel glimmering in the reflection of the morning sun. Over four hundred strong, they made their way slowly into the expansive courtyard, the space somehow finding a way to hold the host of knights and court members. Looking through the group, the proud banners of the prancing stag were displayed prominently, a few other flags that Eddard couldn't recognize arrayed in the background.

There were many familiar faces, and then many more than he could not recognize.

The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, was an easy first. His long blonde hair and cocky smile would identify him from a hill away, and the way he looked down on all those assembled to great them was another instant clue.

To his side must have been his brother, the imp. Tyrion was his name, Tywin's third child, and Eddard vaguely recalled that he was now Master of Coin for the King. The man was certainly shorter than his brother, maybe only half his total height. His face though, was shaped the same as anyone else in the party, and at least he looked around the castle with obvious interest and amazement, a rare sign for a Lannister son.

The tall boy with the blonde hair, probably the crown prince, and his companion, the gruff man with burned skin scaring half of his face, must be the legendary Sandor Clegane, said to be the best non-knight fighter in the capital. Joffrey looked the quintessential Lannister, but on the other hand, he wore armor instead of robes, had Baratheon insignia painted all over them, and carried a large bastard sword which was hanging from his waist.

His eyes narrowed as he thought he caught a sight of Jacelyn Bywater in the sea of faces. If that was truly him, he had last seen the knight at the Battle of the Trident, leading his house's component of loyalist forces, where he had surrendered to Robert after the death of their leader.

There were a number of Stormlanders, as to be expected. In the forefront, Houses Horpe, Staedmon, Caron and Foote could be seen in attendance, along with many other minor knights whose names escaped Eddard's memory. On the other side he could make out a few Reachland knights, though he stood well to the side of the host, most likely wise to keep his distance from the stormlanders, of which there were many more.

Finally, of course, the huge man at the head of the column, his black and yellow armor contrasting with the plain white of the two Kingsguard who flanked him, was Robert Baratheon, in the flesh. His grizzly mane and large blue eyes were the same as Eddard remembered them.

And yet, this man, the man he knew so well, had thought of so frequently in the past weeks, looked a stranger to his blind eye. He was large, godly so, and it seemed as though his black warhorse was just barely carrying its massive charge upright. This . . . this was not the Robert he once knew.

A blonde haired boy, a squire no doubt, brought up a wooden box next to the King's horse, and Robert swung off the animal with an agility of a man far past his prime.

Nevertheless, he sported a massive grin on his great bearded face, and the next thing Eddard knew, the accumulation of all of his worries and anxieties stared him straight in the face.

He blinked, silently cursing his own emotions.

His entire body had frozen up, his muscles unable to move and his lips unable to speak.

"Well?" Robert spoke, his voice struggling to hide the sheer rush of joy and excitement behind it.

Quickly, Eddard dropped to his knee, and he barely registered as four hundred men and women around the courtyard followed him onto the ground.

He followed the custom he had been taught so long ago, resting his forehead against the pommel of the Stark's ancestral sword.

"My Lord," he began, "Winterfell is y . . . "

"Oh get up," Robert cut him off.

He blinked again, before a pair of strong arms literally lifted him from his kneeling position and wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

Though it was unseemly to be seen in such a way with the King, his lord, the part of his brain that saw the man in front of him as his childhood companion overpowered any sense of impropriety. This was the man Eddard had grown up, shared his fears and hopes with, and gone to war with. This was Robert, the joyful Stag that had shown him his place in the world when Eddard had felt abandoned and alone.

As he settled into the embrace, his more rational thoughts abandoning him, he felt, for just one moment, that everything was right with the world.

Perhaps the moment lasted for minutes, maybe hours, maybe seconds, but it was over all too soon, and then Robert's blue eyes were right in front of him again.

"Gods be good Ned!" he bellowed, his voice the sole sound in the entire courtyard, "It's been nine goddamn years! Where in the hell had you been?"

The northerner chuckled just a little, fond memories of Robert's crass language returning to him.

"Here," he said simply, "Guarding the North. Winterfell is yours as always, Your Grace."

Robert laughed and waved him off.

"And what have we here," he mused, turning his attention to Eddard's children.

The King moved over to face his namesake, shaking his hand with a firm grip.

"So you must be Robb," he affirmed, nodded all the while, "Always liked that name for some reason,"

Most of the people in close vicinity gave out a small chortle, the King's fondness for humor apparently still alive and ever present.

He preceded to move down the line of the Stark children, making small compliments and jokes at each one of them, but Eddard had turned his attention away from Robert and back towards the crowd.

The Queen's carriage, a large compartment with gold leaf covering much of it, came to a stop in front of the reception. The riders promptly dismounted and opened the door, allowing Cersei Lannister and her attendants to step out onto the cold dirt. She was wearing traditional southern robes, full with light colors and laced with gold ribbon. In such clothes, she would freeze if the North was in winter. Luckily for her, it was still summer, though Maester Luwin said that the end of it was just around the corner.

The Queen sniffed at the air, as if it was poisoned or filthy, then adopted the arrogant sneer on her face that was so common for her family members. Eddard would have scowled if it was but the two of them, but he knew that now was not the right time to do so.

Behind her, two small golden haired children emerged from the carriage, staying close to the Queen and holding onto her long robes.

Soon enough, Robert was done introducing himself to all of the Starks, and Cersei moved forwards, her movements like a lion slowly approaching a prey. She removed the white glove from her right hand and lay it before Eddard, who duly bent once more to kiss it lightly.

As soon as that ritual was completed, Robert took command of the crowd with his voice, calling his own children over for introductions.

Joffrey, with a perpetual scowl on his face, got down from his horse hesitantly and extended his hand to his father's friend, who promptly grasped it. The boy gave a small smile at that, nodding his head in acknowledgment. Eddard did not quite know what to think of the boy so far. If he had been like Robert, he would have tried to rib his own hand out of his arm, but perhaps that wasn't the characteristic he should be looking for.

Anyways, the crown prince quickly retreated back, allowing Tommen and Myrcella to approach one after the other and deliver their own greetings. Sweet they were indeed, their nervous smiles and careful handshakes reminding Eddard of his own children immediately. Now, there was only one more left . . .

"Alexander!" Robert shouted, "Where the hell are you, boy?"

There was total silence in the air for a moment, before a blonde haired youth Eddard had barely noticed before dropped down from his horse and fell into a deep bow.

"Right here, father," he responded plainly, rising once more and walking over to where the rest of his family was standing.

Behind him, an unshaven dark haired man on horse, looking suspiciously like a sellswords, sniggered at the prince's actions until another knight slammed his fist into the man's chest, shutting him up.

As Alexander came closer, Eddard could now notice some subtle differences between him and his older brother by one year. Where Joffrey eyes were a dull and darker shade of green, Alexander's were positively radiant, appearing more as an emerald color. His short hair was swept to the side rather than lined downwards, and he moved with poise and confidence, as opposed to hesitation and indecision.

Stepping past his family with barely a glance towards them, he seemed to dominate the entire mood.

When Eddard shook the boy hand, those sparkling green eyes stared straight into his own, and for a second, he thought the prince was gazing straight into his soul.

"Well met, Eddard Stark," he said softly, "I hope to become acquainted with you in the days to come."

His tone of voice, his soft spoken words, they were so different than the brittle speech of Robert, and yet no closer to the clean-cut words of his Lannister grandfather. Though, like both great men, it seemed he was able to take control of the presence with but a simple phrase.

"Indeed, my good prince," was all Eddard could muster, his mind lost in thoughts over the return of his oldest friend and the mystery that was his second son.

Alas, he didn't see Alexander tilt his head ever so slightly as he gazed upon the northern lord, a resigned and forlorn look crossing his face for just a second.


	5. ROBERT I

**ROBERT I**

 **Late morning**

 **20** **th** **Day of the 1** **st** **Month; 298 A.L.**

 **Winterfell**

 **The North; Westeros**

He watched hesitantly as Alexander shook hands with Ned, his breath short and labored.

There was just something about that boy. He couldn't place his finger on it, he most likely never would, but it bugged him all the same. The tempered smiles, the long looks, the hidden genius, for he knew the boy was a genius, and none would deny that. It was all just so . . . unnatural.

Years ago, Pycelle, the old fool, had shared his sentiments, for they had all been worried about his son's state. But then he had changed his mind, declaring that while the boy might be odd for his age, it was his intellect that was the cause and nothing else.

Robert didn't buy that for a minute.

Don't get him wrong, he loved the boy, just as he would love any son, well, except Joffrey of course, but that was different. Alexander might not look up to him, and well, who could blame him for that, but damn it, he sure could act like a Baratheon from time to time.

Alexander had been a weak boy when he was younger. Always stuck in his books and tomes, always hiding away in his room, always hanging out with those _weird_ friends of his. He remembered having made an offhanded comment about it to the kid once. He had been drunk at the time, and his words were probably overly harsh for the situation, but the kid had taken them to heart.

He had raised his head, gone to see his uncle, and basically demanded that he be given more sword lessons.

And that was that.

His second son would never wield the great Warhammer, but damn could he swing a sword when he needed to.

A great talent he was not, and even now his movements sometimes seemed off step and clunky, but he trained his ass off to get himself to where he was now. That Lannister cunt could whip his head off in a matter of seconds if he wanted to, but yeah he could probably whip off anyone head at a moment's notice. That was what he was known for, wasn't it?

No, no, it didn't matter. The boy would never be a master swordsman like his uncle, nor a great warrior like his father, but his martial talents were there, and for that, well, Robert was proud.

Maybe the only thing he had been proud of in recent memory . . .

Too much history still clouded his mind, drove him to the depths of humanity. Sometimes, he wondered why he still sat on that damn throne. Fuck, he would have let Tywin take it years ago if only so he could go escape to Essos, maybe go crack some more Targaryen skulls, but Jon wouldn't have a word of it, and he eventually had given up on the idea years ago.

For too long he had holed himself away in the damn capital, surrounded by those twice-damned courtiers and sycophants, forgetting about what life was really about.

All of his friends had long since died around him. His old friends from the war against the Targaryens had slowly died off in the Stormlands. His great uncle, or whatever the hell he was, the one who he had convinced Jon to make Master of Coin, had also died years back. Jon, dear, sweet old Jon . . . he was now gone from the world as well; felled by a fever of all things.

But he was here. Ned was here.

Ned was the only one left.

He was the last one that Robert could truthfully remember having happy times with, living his best life.

Not only that, for Lyanna was here as well.

He had been hiding from her for years. That's why he had refused to come North, even when Jon had told him it would do him good. Her presence, or the mere thought of her presence, it has chilled his bones, frozen his mind, terrified him to the depths.

Now though, he could wait no longer. He had had enough of running from his fears, of the loss of his past.

"Ned, take me to the crypts!" he bellowed out, his decision made and his mind set.

Eddard seemed shocked at first, looking at the Queen and then back at him, trying to confirm what to do.

Honestly, he didn't give a flying fuck about the damn Lannister woman right now. She had given him the cold shoulder for the entire ride up here, for the last decade really, and she and her pride wouldn't, couldn't, stop him now.

"It's been a long ride, love, can't it wait till later?" she asked, her snide tone ever present.

Robert shot her a look of disgust. What did she know of loss? Of regret? Nothing. She had nothing important to say on the matter, and he wouldn't have cared anyways.

He nodded at Ned and then took off towards the castle, Ned's heavy footsteps rushing to keep up with him. A few stone might have been packed onto him, but he could still move fast if he was motivated.

Soon enough he was trudging down a cold hallway of grey stone, so very simple and Stark-like it almost made the old King laugh. But now was not the time or the place.

Ned tried to keep pace with him, a lantern held high to illuminate the dark and damp cobblestones beneath them. He walked a few feet behind, looking cautiously around as Robert has his eyes set forwards.

Just like all those years back in the Eyrie . . .

Him, the bold adventurer, daring the fears towards the summit.

Ned, the careful companion, always checking out for things unseen.

But those adventures had been long ago, when he was a young arrogant lord and Ned was a young shy brat. Times were different now, him sitting on that ugly chair down south and Ned hidden up in the north.

Talking of the North . . .

"I was afraid we would never get here for some time," Robert complained as they marched onwards, "Sometimes, down south, a man forgets that your Kingdom is as large as any of the others put together. Quite a thing it is, really."

Ned looked thoughtful, as if being reminded of the fact for the first time in a while

"I trust the journey was at least enjoyable then?"

Robert snorted, his big beard shaking with amusement.

"Better than I was led to believe to be honest. Decent inns and food. Stopped in a few nicer towns along the way," a smirk made its way onto his face, "Wenches a plenty at every one! Eh Ned?"

The northerner said nothing. Seems like at least Ned hadn't changed much. But then, neither had he, truly. Still talking about girls as he did, well, what did you expect?

"I guess so, Your Grace. Kings are a rare sight in the north."

Bland statement, lacking completely in emotion and meaning. Yep, typical Ned.

"My stupid counselors told me that the roads would be washed away and the people all hidden in the field, but what do they know, eh? All a bunch of fools if you ask me!"

Aha! Ned cracked a smile at that one. He knew he could get to him eventually.

"And what do the Royal Princes think of the North so far, Your Grace?" Ned asked, a blanket of seriousness falling over him once more.

"Tommen and Myrcella are just glad to go somewhere other than King's Landing. Gods, and so am I!" he laughed, "Joffrey's been quiet most of the time. Contemplative, I guess. Alexander too, actually. Been taking notes in that little black notebook of his."

He could see Ned opening his mouth out of the corner of his eyes.

"Don't ask me why," he cut him off, "It's the only Kingdom he hasn't seen yet, apart from Dorne of course.

He paused for a second.

"Wouldn't ever let him travel down there, no matter how much he asked. Vipers down there would kill him before I could grab my Warhammer to go down and save the poor boy!"

"I would have thought that Dorne would have put aside their grievances by now," Ned asked, seemingly surprised at the notion.

He huffed in a mixture of amusement and irritation.

"Then you'd be wrong, my friend. They're still as hostile as he day that fat septon put the crown on my damn head! You remember the Greyjoys right?"

Ned nodded.

"They didn't send a single soldier North to help us all out! Not a single one!"

Now his friend looked surprised at least, a deep consternation plastered over his solemn face.

"Damn traitors if you ask me! I called their fucking banners, and they didn't respond! According to the law, that's high treason! I went through the books myself to make sure!"

"Hmm," was all he received in return. Hells. How did the man always seem to know when he was lying?

"Fine," he threw up his arms, "I had my Master of Laws check the books for me! But I was the one who made him."

Come on! Give him some credit for that, at least.

"Speaking of laws, Your Grace, I was wondering if I might speak to you at some point about some of the new taxes levied on the Riverlands crossing points?" Ned commented softly.

Robert stopped walking for a second and furrowed his brows, allowing Ned to continue.

"As you know, we are currently in a Long Summer, and while the crops are plentiful, the taxes are no big matter. But my maester has informed me that they may pose some serious problems for us once the heavy snows start to set in and we have to rely on my goodfather's family for supplies."

He tried to digest Ned's words, the question swirling around in his head. Taxes in the Riverlands? What the fuck was he supposed to know about taxes in the fucking Riverlands? Didn't Ned know better than to ask him such things.

He waved him off, "Come on Ned, you can ask Jon lat . . ."

He froze. His hands went immobile in mid-air and the words died on his throat.

What a hard way for the truth to smack you in the face.

Robert turned, leaning against the wall for a minute, struggling to regain his breath.

For a minute, his mind went blank, and he struggled to hold back the tears dripping from his eyes. He felt a cold shiver run down his back and he almost fell down the wall, such was the weight of his emotions.

Eventually, he turned around, daring himself to face Ned, the one man left, the one man he knew he could trust, above all the others.

His friend's face was pointed downwards, his eyes closed, and he knew, in his heart, that no matter the solemnness that was the very definition of the northern lord, Ned felt it just as much as he did.

"Ned . . ." he started slowly, his voice softer than a whisper.

"No, Robert." He was cut off, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even brought it up. It was unneeded."

The King wiped away his tears, the fabric of his thick overcoat brushing against his cheeks. Always like Ned to be the first to apologize. Things never changed with the man.

And they never should have. Damn it, he should have stayed south with him, help him rule, help him _live_.

He needed Ned Stark.

"Ned," he started again, his voice calmer but still ragged, "I want . . ."

No. He couldn't do it like this. Whimpering and shivering was not in Robert's style, and it shouldn't ever be.

He stood tall, throwing his chaotic feelings out for now, to be revisited only when he was alone. Now was the time for action. He had made his choice long ago, and he would not back down now.

It was clear, and in that one moment, it all seemed so simple.

"I want you to come back with me to King's Landing."

Ned stared, his grey eyes unblinking, his face betraying not a single emotion.

"I want you to be my Hand, Ned." He finished, trying to sound as confident and commanding as possible, but knowing that after the previous display, it was probably lost on the both of them.

At that, Ned went down to his knees again, trying miserably to hide this surprise.

Figures. Ned wasn't stupid. He must have known the true reason the King came north. No matter how much his old friend must have tried to deny it in his mind, now they were both here. Decisions were going to have to be made.

Robert knew, though many would tell him otherwise, that he could have no Hand but Eddard Stark. None. There was naught a single other man in the realm who was as fit for the responsibility than the Stark.

The Hand, stripped away of all the ceremonial foolishness, was without a doubt that second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He commanded the King's armies, wrote the King's laws, dispensed the King's justice, and even sat on that damn Iron Throne when the King could not. In truth, the Hand was a King in all but name.

It was for that reason that it was absolutely essential that the Hand be a man of loyal virtues, one who could be trusted.

Jon Arryn could be trusted. He had raised him, taken care of him, gone to war for him, sacrificed his family and his men for him. Arryn was more invested in the throne than even he was.

But now that Jon had passed, the vacuum of power was open once more, and all those useless nobles down in the capital were scrambling over themselves to acquire it.

Cersei, the stupid woman she was, had the gall, the sheer audacity, the propose the _Kingslayer_ for the position! The nerve of her! Like he would ever trust that man near a position of power, not least his own body.

No. Ned was the only one, the _only_ one, who he could trust with the power and privilege that came with the office. He knew, even if he didn't have proof, that everyone in court wanted to see him fall. They begged every night that he would fail, leave the realm and allow them to seize the damn fucking throne for themselves.

Especially those Targaryen loyalists. They were out there, and he knew it.

Ned, Ned would put them in place, he told himself.

He would bring the same harsh iron of the north to beat those southern fools into a pulp, and by the Gods would Robert be cheering him along the entire way.

"Your Grace," came Ned, his words slow and deliberate, "I am . . . not worthy of the honor."

Fuck that, was the first thing that came to Robert's mind.

"I'm not trying to honor you, Ned" he scolded the kneeling man, "I'm trying to give the realm a responsible ruler while I waste away drinking until I pass out fucking whores."

It was blunt, but all would know it was the easiest of truths. Robert was no ruler. He was well aware of that. Jon had been a good Hand, a competent Hand, and Ned would be the same.

"You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?"

Ned nodded quickly before replying. "What the king dreams," he said, "the Hand builds."

"I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit."

He stifled a laugh and retained his somber tone, the words coming across bluntly rather than the humorous way he intended. The quite chuckle died in the air, the cold breathe of the Stark crypts giving an eerie mood to the whole affair.

Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. "Damn it, Ned," Robert complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile."

"They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor."

"That's exactly why I need you Ned. You were always more cut out for the business of lords than I was," he admitted. "You helped me win the damn throne, now help me keep it."

He could see Ned struggling, unsure of whether to commit himself or not.

He needed one last push. A call to family . . . and the promise of a future one.

"If Lyanna had lived," he said slowly," We could have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it's not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My son Joffrey and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

At this though, Ned raised himself, that look of silent unease back over his face.

"Sansa is but thirteen." He mentioned.

"And Joffrey is sixteen, his brother but a year behind him. Neither of them are married yet, and every year that passes I receive more stupid offers for their hands. Let it be yours's that I accept Ned."

Robert didn't see the problem with it at all. Girls were betrothed younger than thirteen, and some were even married by her age.

Plus, the constant stream of courtiers politely and subtly requesting royal matches were a headache beyond belief. It used to be fun. They invited him to grand banquets and put on displays that marveled him. Now, with the princes and princess still unmatched, they had stopped such practices.

If it was up to Cersei, all four of them would be paired with more of those Gods-damned blond haired Lannisters from the West. Disgusting, and it smacked far too much of Targaryen practices for Robert to ever consider it.

He would decide Alexander's fate later, the boy could wait, but Joffrey could not. The cruel attitudes of his first son had not gone unnoticed, and he more than anyone needed a nice girl to calm him down. Sansa would do. Varys had already told him about her traits, and her docile posture in the courtyard at least gave partial evidence to what he had already heard. Yes, she would be good for Joff.

"She's old enough for a betrothal," Robert continued, "She can come down to King's Landing with you and wait a year or two for a proper marriage."

It was the perfect solution. A solution that would right old wrongs, correct the mistake of the Gods.

He smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned answered, but then he saw the spark of realization in the man's eyes. "These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife . . ."

"Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." He reached down and Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. We can't stay here all year waiting for you to make up your mind."

They both stood there. Silent. Solemn. Robert looked around, uncomfortable with this environment.

"Come on Ned," he tried to break the tension in the hall, "Let's go see her."

He took off once more, Ned walking at his side now rather than behind. Around them, the stone walls became visibly older and more foreboding. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. It felt as if the eyes of the dead on them both, criticizing, disapproving, questioning. He did not like it at all.

Soon enough, the two men reached the bottom of the stairs, his own hands shivering at his side as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt.

"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. The shadows on the walls jumped from statue to statue, evading the light like dancing figures. In front of them stood a long procession of granite pillars that were arranged in pairs in the specter of the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the cold stone that contained their mortal remains.

"She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon."

Ned walked deliberately, as if afraid to provoke the carvings, leading the way between the pillars as he followed wordlessly, shivering in the subterranean chill. Together, their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead. One by one, the Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. The blind eyes stared out into eternal darkness as great stone direwolves lay near their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by.

They stopped at last and Ned lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed.

In the distance, he could hear Ned indicate a statue on the far left, but his voice sunk into the shadows as Robert laid his eyes upon her.

He nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head.

There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him.

Robert had never had the chance to meet with the great northern lord, but he had heard only good things of the man. To have raised a son as good as Ned, he surely must have been.

To his side, Lyanna's face stared at him emotionlessly. She had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. He had loved her with all of his heart. She was to have been his bride.

But now she was here, dead, and Robert could never have her, never see her smile again.

And so no matter where he was, or who he was with, his heart would remain here, with her, broken and dead, just like the woman he would forever love.

"She was more beautiful than this," he said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?"

His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than this, better than this . . ."

"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place."

He paused once more.

"I was with her when she died. She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father."

The king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it was living flesh.

"I bring her flowers when I can," Ned continued. "Lyanna was . . . fond of flowers."

"I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her." Robert interrupted him.

"You did," Ned reminded him.

"Only once," Robert said bitterly.

He closed his eyes, and imaged the exact moment once more.

There, it was, crystal clear, implanted in the depths of his mind even after all of these years. Somehow, he was sure it would never fade.

They had seen each other at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, he with his warhammer and the great antlered helm, the Targaryen bastard armored all in black.

Unconsciously, the noise of the battle had drowned around him, and all he could see was red, the red of rage, the red of fury.

 _Ours is the fury_ indeed.

They circled each other, sword swinging high and low and warhammer crashing down from the sky, anger and hatred the only things in his mind. At last, a crushing blow from his hammer caved in the chest of the dragon and the fucking bastard fell in front of him.

He was standing over him now, the black armored man lying on the ground, red blood oozing from his body into the water.

The warhammer came crashing down again . . . and again . . . and again . . . hacking away bit by bit at the man who had ruined everything, forever.

It was so . . . sweet . . . delicious, like sweet candy that played itself over and over again in his dreams. It was intoxicating, and he bathed in the feeling every night.

Finally, the dragonspawn lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free of his armor.

"In my dreams, I kill him every night," he admitted. "A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves."

There was nothing Ned could say to that. "We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting."

"The Others take my wife," he muttered sourly, but he turned around and started back the way they had come, his footsteps falling heavily. "And if I hear 'Your Grace' once more, I'll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that."

"I had not forgotten," Ned replied quietly.

Then came the question he had been waiting for.

"Tell me about Jon."

He shook his head. "Truth is; he'd been dying for a few moons. I guess we all just refused to see it. He kept going, always in his office or out in the streets. In the last weeks, I'm told he went down to the ports every day, checking on something or . . . I don't know. . ."

He stopped beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. "I loved that old man."

"We both did." Ned nodded pensively, "That sounds like Jon though. Working hard until the very end. A dedicated man."

Robert smiled fondly, once again trying to hold back the onset of despair at the memories. "That he was." He frowned. "Still, it was awful for him the last two weeks. His skin pale and falling off of him. I couldn't bear to look at him near the end."

It was true. The last time he had seen the old man, you could literally see the veins bleeding inside of him. It was grotesque, to say the least. Robert had seen death before, a lot of it, but this was different.

He was familiar to executions, beheadings, hangings, casualties of war and the like.

Jon had lay there, unmoving, his mouth open and his body shaking in odd intervals, his eyes darting around, desperately looking for something on the walls.

The feeling of helplessness, the fact that he could do nothing, weighed on him heavily.

Until the very end, he had refused to come to terms with the fact that Jon was dying. No, it simply wasn't possible, he told himself. Jon had lived through other illnesses before, but, as Robert should have realized, this was no natural illness. Instead, he had sat on his throne, drinking more than he probably should have, just trying to drown it away.

Pycelle declared leprosy, of all things, the cause of death.

Robert had refused to believe that at first as well. After all, how could a simply disease such a leprosy kill off such a great man such as Jon?

But it seemed like, for once, Pycelle had been accurate. According to the maesters, hundreds in King's Landing had fallen victim to the horror during the same months. As usual, they separated the sick from the healthy, taking drastic measures from the very onset to prevent the spread of it.

Surprisingly, only a couple hundred had fallen sick, probably dying the same tragic death that dear Jon had. Most had expected the numbers to be far higher, but as long as it did not become a crisis, Robert was content to ignore the small details.

Jon though, damn it, they should have been able to save him!

With the proper instruments and the proper care, he knew that leprosy could be treated, maybe not cured, but postponed for sure.

Pycelle said he had done all he could, but he didn't trust the poor man one bit.

And yet, the other maesters that resided at the Red Keep had all attended to Jon, and they had all failed just as badly. They tried ointments, dry bleeding, and anything else they could think of, but it had all been for naught. On certain days, it appeared as though Jon was getting better, but the very next day his skin would be pale and red once more, the disease striking back harder than it could be delayed.

"Catelyn fears for her sister. How has Lysa dealt with her grief?" Ned's words shook him out of his own thoughts, bringing him back into the real world.

"Badly, to put it in a word," he replied bluntly, "Loosing Jon has driven her mad, Ned. She had fled and taken her son back to the Eyrie not a night after his passing. I was hoping to foster him with Renly down in Storm's End, show him what's what and the stuff. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by his wife?"

"She had just lost her husband," Ned said carefully. "Perhaps she feared to lose her son as well. The boy is still very young, and Catelyn has told me that her sister was always the more temperamental of the two of them."

"Six, sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie. Gods have mercy," he swore. "I worry for the boy, honestly. Cooped up in the Eyre with only his mother and her guards for company. That's no way for him to grow up. No, not at all." He sighed deeply. "The boy is my namesake; did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?"

"I can take him as ward, if you wish," Ned offered. "Lysa should consent to that. She and Catelyn were close as girls, and she would be welcome here as well."

"A generous offer, for sure," he considered, "She has yet to write to me or to anyone else at court, or so I am told. Perhaps if you come south you can use that damned family relationship to appeal to her better senses."

"Perhaps," Ned answered cryptically.

He was still uncommitted on whether to accept the Handship. Robert knew it would be difficult to convince his stubborn friend, but he didn't think he would have to browbeat him to get his damn consent.

"These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace." He said, trying to appeal to Ned's duty if nothing else.

"His son . . ." Ned began.

"His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all its incomes," Robert retorted brusquely. "No more."

That clearly took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to face him. The words came unbidden. "The Arryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain."

"Perhaps when he comes of age the honor can be bestowed upon an Arryn once more," he said. "But not now. He is too young. No experience at all. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, Ned."

Ned's wasn't happy about that explanation. "In times of peace, the title is only an honor. Let the boy keep it. For his father's sake if not his own. Surely you owe Jon that much for his service."

He huffed, hating being reminded of the man now passed more than he had to. He had already spoken his words on Jon Arryn, and he would consider these matters no more.

"Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege lord." He spoke with a tone of finality, "I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east."

Then his tone softened. "Enough of this. Enough of the damn politics for now. Ned, we'll talk about the Handship again tomorrow, but for now, let's put it to the side. Come on, right? We're friends, Ned."

At that, he saw the dour Stark crack a smile, a sincere one this time.

"Let's go feast tonight, and let memories long passed be relived once more!"

He stopped for a second, and Ned looked at him questioningly.

"How big are your stores of northern ale?" he whispered conspiratorially.

Ned's head fell back chuckling. It wasn't a full blown laugh, but hey, it was most likely all the expression he was ever going to get out of the man.

He slapped his old friend on the back, leading them forwards out of the crypts into Winterfell proper, a thousand jokes on his tongue ready to tell throughout the night.


End file.
